Rush faster on the one-way lane the answers so silent
Rysty gods in their machine-mind armours grind our souls in the millstone of time the "deathbed harvest" is a dead manґs banquet of mould ridden bread and black, poisoned wine
And we go... our step so silent And we go... our blooded trace the Jester Race
Calling our to the gathered masses their answers so silent
And we go...
Embracing the tools of the neo-wolf age that speak of silence and silence alone
Offering the tokens, the reliced idols to the heirs of the newly raped ground inferior even to the transparent winds - lesser in motion and sound
And we go...
There is no trace of me in their altered blueprints of life
Gala impaled on their horns and lances the fumes from her body give chase as the strong of blind men savour the scent, dream-dead from Prosaic and hate
-epilogue-
"Sunwind strokes the ElectroHeart, ignition roars through the corridors, stream launching the binary vessels"
Vanities in extreme formations ride into tomorrowґs rigid great face The Machinery outlives the futile scripts of our dying jester race
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